


Put the Gun Into Your Mouth to Bite

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF, MCFC RPF
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the game against Cardiff, Joe needs something. He persuades Costel to give it to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put the Gun Into Your Mouth to Bite

**Author's Note:**

> **ADDITIONAL WARNING:** Under-negotiated but consensual kink.
> 
> 1) Written for [this prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9768.html?thread=4892712) at [footballkink](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/).
> 
> 2) The kink in the story is primarily (but not entirely) non-sexual.
> 
> 3) During the course of the story, both of the characters say a lot of things, some of them very objectionable. The things they say represent the thoughts and feelings of the characters and are said within a very specific framework. They are not representative of the author’s views in general or of the author’s views of the characters.

The next day in training, Joe’s quiet, speaking only when spoken to. It unsettles Costel. Joe’s never quiet - not like this. Joe’s expansive and loud. He’s always flinging out his arms and crowding into people’s - Costel’s - space, pulling them close, hugging them, patting them, ruffling their hair. Not today. Today all of his movements are contained - controlled - and they’re accompanied by a strange, off-putting silence. 

On the way back in, after training, Costel trails behind Joe. If they walk together, he’ll have to think of something to say. He doesn’t know what to say. He knows he can’t say any of the things he’d thought when he’d watched the goals slip in past Joe’s hands. 

As they near the gate, they meet up with the rest of the team. Joleon comes and nudges into Joe’s side. He throws an arm around Joe’s shoulders. He says something to Joe and Joe turns to look at him. Costel sees him flinch, so quick he almost thinks he’s imagined it, then he smiles and says something back. Joleon ruffles Joe’s hair then bounds ahead to hassle Micah. 

When Joleon lets go of him, Joe slumps and slows his pace enough that it’s easy for Costel to catch up to him. He bumps his shoulder against Joe’s and says, “All right, Joe?”

“Sure,” Joe says but he doesn’t look at Costel.

“Joleon,” he says, curious what could make Joe flinch, “What did he say?”

Joe looks at him. His eyebrows are raised and his mouth is open and slack. He blinks, like he’s trying to bring Costel into focus, then he closes his mouth and turns away. “Just, you know, what everyone else’s been saying.”

“Oh,” Costel says. He’s not sure why friendly encouragement would make Joe flinch. 

They walk the rest of the way in in silence, shoulders bumping every few steps. When they reach the changing room, they go their separate ways.

Once Costel’s dressed and ready to go, something makes him look around for Joe. He’s sitting in front of his cubby, staring down at his phone. He’s still wearing his training gear. The changing room’s emptying out and everyone else that’s left is wearing their street clothes. 

Costel ducks through the thinning crowd until he’s stood in front of Joe. He kicks Joe’s foot. “What are you looking at that is so interesting that you forget to change?” He waits for Joe to kick him back or to snap out an indignant retort but he doesn’t even look up. He kicks Joe’s foot again. “Joe?”

“ _Hmm_?” Joe says without looking up.

“What,” Costel says, leaning over and peering at Joe’s phone, “are you looking at?” He hunches down and catches a glimpse of the screen, enough to see the beginning of a headline. He rocks back on his heels. “You shouldn’t read that,” he says, louder than he intends to, “Joe, you--” 

Joe’s head snaps up. “Why not? They’re the only ones saying it like it is. The only ones--”

“Joe,” Costel interrupts, because Joe looks wild, like a small animal cornered by a predator, “No! No. They know nothing. You--”

“They do,” Joe says. His voice is so loud that Costel glances around, sure someone will have heard, but they’re the only ones left in the room. “They,” Joe says, still too loud, “know what I am, what I-- Vinnie, Meeks, everyone, they-- they--” He slumps back and drops his head. “They mean well but...” He trails off.

“They,” Costel says, slow and tentative, “are friends, teammates, of course they--”

Joe looks back up. “Yeah,” he says, “I know. But what they have to say, I don’t-- S’not--” He looks away.

“You want,” Costel says, waving his hand towards Joe’s phone, “them to say things like that instead. To say--” He hasn’t read the papers but he’s heard enough on TV and on the radio to guess what they’re saying. “You make mistake. You--” He stops unsure how far to go, unsure what to say next. 

Joe looks back, looks straight up at him. His eyes are wide and his mouth is open. The shape formed by his parted lips is odd and crooked. “Costel,” he says.

Costel thinks he must’ve pushed too hard, said too much. “Sorry,” he says, “I--” He takes a step back. “I’ll go.” Joe stands up in a rush, sending Costel stumbling back. “I’ll go,” he says again.

Joe grabs his wrist. “No,” he says, “Costel--” They’re so close together Costel can see the light, uneven blue of Joe’s eyes, so close he can see the spiky not quite brown, not quite blond strands of his eyelashes. They’re too close. He steps back. Joe squeezes his wrist, digs his fingertips into the underside of it, right against the bone.

“Joe?”

“I made a mistake, yeah?” Joe says. His voice pitches up. “And no one, Vinnie, Meeks, Joleon, the boss, no one will say, they--they--” He presses his fingertips harder into Costel’s wrist. “I lost us the game, Costel, I--” His voice’s gone frantic and he’s staring at Costel like he’s begging for something. Costel wishes he knew what for. “Costel?” Joe says. He slumps, folds in on himself. His hand loosens around Costel’s wrist.

Costel’s first instinct is to comfort, to soothe, because Joe looks lost - bewildered - almost childlike. But that isn’t what Joe wants. He’s not sure what it is Joe wants but he’s sure it isn’t that. He steps back. Joe lets go of his wrist. 

“You,” he says slowly, “made a mistake. A bad one. We lose and you--” He falters, not sure how far to go, wonders if he’s already said what Joe wants to hear or if he should go on. Joe’s watching him, straining towards him like he wants to be closer. “You made a mistake,” he says again because that seems like far enough. Joe’s still straining towards him, though, like he’s looking for something else, something Costel’s not giving him. 

“I made a mistake,” Joe says with a kind of shaky awe that sends an unpleasant sensation slithering down Costel’s spine. Joe takes a small, shuffling step forward and Costel wants to back away, wants to turn around and run, and he’s not sure why. “Tell me again,” Joe says, hushed and fast, “Costel. Costel, say it again.” 

He _should_ run, he thinks, but it’s like he’s stuck, ensnared by Joe’s desperation. “You made mistakes,” he says, “You lost us the game.” It’s easier to say this time. 

Joe takes another step forward. “Again.” He’s still coming forward. He doesn’t stop until they’re almost chest to chest. 

He should back away but he doesn’t. “Joe?” he says and now he’s the one who sounds desperate. 

“Again,” Joe says and there’s a insidious, pleading tone in his voice that makes Costel’s skin prickle. 

It’s a warning, he thinks, this uncomfortable, prickling sensation skating over his skin, but, instead of heeding it, he opens his mouth and says, “You make mistakes. Bad ones,” and then, instead of stopping, instead of stepping back, he adds, “And it is not the first time. Not the first game you lose.” He waits for a reaction, for Joe to push him away.

Joe sways closer until he’s so close Costel can feel his breath against his face. “More,” he says, slurred and wrecked, “Costel.” 

Costel feels like he can’t breathe, like there’s something heavy pressing against his chest. “Joe--” he says, then, “You make many mistakes, you--” It’s like the words are pouring out of him unbidden, like his own voice is out of his control. “You never learn. Same mistakes always. Over and over. Like you cannot help it. Never learn. And--” He stops, out of breath and appalled. All the things he thinks but never says are spilling out of him. He steps back, stumbling in his haste to get away, to stop himself. 

Joe follows him forward, pressing close again. “And?” he says and he sounds eager, like he can’t wait to hear whatever horrible thing Costel will say next. 

And Costel says it, the end of the sentence, the thing he never says, the thing he barely thinks, “And still you play. Game after game. Games I should play. Games that are _mine_ \--” He’ll never forgive Mancini for that. Never. But Mancini’s not here - won’t ever be again. Joe is. Joe’s here, so close to him, pleading for all of the terrible thoughts he keeps locked away. “Even after so many mistakes you play but you--” He stops. Joe presses closer and Costel can’t breathe, can’t--

“Costel?” Joe’s leaning in and it’s like he’s taking all the air, like he’s twining around Costel suffocating him. 

“Enough,” he says and he pushes Joe away, harder than he means to, and Joe goes stumbling back, clattering into the bench. Something falls to the floor and there’s a sharp crack, like the sound of breaking glass. 

“But I?” Joe says. He sounds as breathless as Costel feels.

Costel takes another step back. “You don’t,” he says, because he might as well finish, might as well shatter everything beyond repair, “deserve it.” He can hear Joe’s sucked in breath, sees his whole chest heave with it. He braces himself, then, for a blow, an outburst, but there’s nothing. 

“Say that again,” Joe says and there’s an undertone in his voice that Costel can’t quite parse. It makes him queasy, like there’s something squirming in his belly, trying to claw its way out. 

“No,” he says, “You say it.” He’s not sure why he says it, isn’t sure where it comes from. “You want to hear it. You say it. Say how you don’t deserve it. Say how you make stupid mistakes. How you lose game. How you let us down. _You_ say it.” Now, he thinks, is when it’s over, now is when Joe puts a stop to this, says he’s gone too far. 

“I don’t,” Joe says, “deserve it.” His voice is shaky but he says it like an affirmation - a revelation. “I fucked up, Costel, I-- I do that. All the time.” He pushes off the wall and comes towards Costel. “I don’t-- I don’t want to but I do. I-- I let everyone down I--”

“Shut up,” Costel snaps, because he can’t listen, can’t-- “Shut up.” He puts his hand in the middle of Joe’s chest, keeps him at arms length. “Enough. We--I--- You make mistakes, okay? Maybe a lot. But, Joe--” He pauses. “Is enough now, okay. Is done. You--you do better, you--” He can’t look at Joe anymore. He turns away. “You, ah, you are sorry, that’s okay. You tell everyone that. But enough of this now.”

“No,” Joe says and he tries to come closer. Costel pushes him back. “No, he says again, “Costel, please, I--” He sounds broken open. His raw desperation makes his voice sharp and high, the sound of it like the screeching scrape of metal across metal.

He pushes forward, hard and fast, and Costel can’t keep him away. He pushes him back, too hard, and they teeter back, locked together. Joe’s trying to get closer and he’s scrambling to get away. They land hard, bouncing off the bench, then the cubbies. He tries to get back, to get away but Joe’s holding on so tightly and he doesn’t want to hurt him. “Joe,” he says, “Please. I do not want to hurt you. Please--” 

Joe makes a low, pleading sound. “Please,” he says, “Please.” Costel stills. Something acid burns, quick and sharp, at the back of his throat. He feels like he’s going to be sick. 

He twists so he can see Joe’s face. Joe’s eyes are wide, his pupils blown, black overtaking the blue. He swallows back his reflexive revulsion and says, still reeling from the realization of what Joe wants, “You--you _want_ me to? You-- Joe? I--” Joe nods.

Costel starts to fight, to twist out of Joe’s grasp. He needs to get away from Joe. Now. Joe lets him go and he stumbles back. Once he’s steady, once he’s got his breath back, he says, “I won’t-- Joe, _Joe_ , I can’t--” He should go now. He should have left long before it came to this. 

He stays. 

“Why--why would you want that?” He doesn’t understand it. He’s used to pain. He’s an athlete. He has been for as long as he can remember. Pain is part of that. But he’d never seek it out, never-- “Why?”

Joe shrugs and looks away. “I just--” He looks back. “It don’t matter. Go home, Costel.” He sounds defeated, worse than he does after their most terrible losses, worse than he had after the Cardiff game. But when Costel told him he didn’t deserve to play, when he told him he’d made mistakes, he’d looked alive, had looked desperate for more. 

“What-- What do you want?” he says. He feels like something’s sliding over him, something slick and unclean, something that’s going to stick to his skin and never wash off. Joe doesn’t say anything but he stands up a little straighter and stares right at Costel. “You want,” Costel says, unable to stop now that he’s started, “to fight? To have me--” He mimes a punch. He and Joe tussle and fight all the time. Nothing serious but there’s been an accidental bruise or two, a few punches that were too hard to be considered playful. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Joe says yes, doesn’t know if he could hit Joe with the intent to hurt him. 

Joe shakes his head. “No. No. Nothing like that.” 

Costel can’t think what else it would be, can’t think of any other way he could hurt Joe. “What then?” he says, plowing ahead, because the time for stopping or hesitating is long gone.

Joe looks away again. “Just--just, it’s like, I don’t want a fight or nothing. Just, s’like when you were talking, I-- I want, like that, you know?” He looks back at Costel. “I fucked up. I-- I want, just, I fucked up and I want--want-- You know?” He’s staring at Costel like he thinks Costel can fill in the blanks of his stuttered, disjointed pleading, like Costel knows, somehow, what he’s asking for.

And maybe Costel does. “Like,” he says, speaking slowly, as if, if he takes his time, he can hide from what he’s about to say, “to be punished, you want like that?” 

Joe slumps, in relief Costel thinks, and nods so fast it’s almost comical. “Yeah,” he says, ‘Yeah. That’s it. I--”

“How? What you want?” and he knows, as he says it, that he’s going to do it, he’s going to give Joe whatever he asks for, otherwise, he knows, he wouldn’t ask.

“Dunno. Like, you know, when you were little and--and--” He stutters to a stop.

It’s not what Costel’d been expecting. Though, what he’d been expecting, he doesn’t know. He feels like he’s free-falling, heading faster and faster towards the ground, heading straight for a painful crash without any idea of how to stop. “You want,” he says, stumbling a bit over the words, “me to punish you like--like a naughty child. To--to, like to--” He mimes a slap. “Like that?”

Joe looks back at him. “Would you?”

“I--” He stops. He should say no. This is so far past too far that he’s not even sure where they are, isn’t sure what is right, what is wrong. 

“Please,” Joe says and Costel capitulates. He can actually feel himself give in, feels like there’s something collapsing in his chest. “Okay.”

Joe’s mouth tips up into a sick approximation of a smile. “Thank you,” he says, “Tha-”

“Just,” Costel interrupts, because the gratitude in Joe’s voice, his expression, it makes him ill. It makes him want to grab Joe and shake him. To ask him what’s wrong with him that he’s asking for this from Costel, that he’s _grateful_ for this. But Costel’s going to give it to him and, maybe, just maybe, that’s worse. “Turn around and--and-- Quiet, okay, you, just be quiet.”

Joe turns around, not fast, but slowly, like he’s making each movement deliberately. He stands so close to the bench his knees brush against it and he braces his hands on the sides of his cubby. Without Joe staring at him, Costel feels alone. It’s almost like Joe’s left the room. 

He stares at the line of Joe’s back, at the breadth of his shoulders. He fists his hands, digs his nails into his palms, and tries to imagine how it will feel to strike Joe. When he was young, his mother used to punish him by turning him over her knee. He’d always hated it. Not the pain - she’d never hit him hard - but the ignominy of it, the humiliation of being spread over her lap. He’d done everything he could to avoid it. And Joe’s _asking_ for it. He can’t imagine doing the same. 

“Okay,” he says, “Okay.” He’s not sure if he’s talking to Joe or to himself. He takes a step forward, then another and another, until he’s right behind Joe. He makes himself unclench his fists. Joe cants his hips back. “If,” he says. His mouth’s so dry he can hardly get the words out. “You want to stop, you say, all right?” Joe doesn’t answer. “Joe,” he says, “answer me.” It comes out sharper than he intended.

“Yeah,” Joe says, “All right.” 

And now there’s nothing left to say, no other way to stall, now he has to actually do this. He looks down at his hands. He has big hands - strong hands - and he’s careful with them, knows the damage he could cause with them. Aside from a few schoolboy scuffles, he’s never used them to deliberately hurt someone. He flexes his hand once, twice, then he hits Joe, smacks his open palm against Joe’s ass. The impact of the blow reverberates up his arm and someone - him not Joe - gasps. Joe doesn’t make a sound.

He does it again before he can think too much about it. Hits him harder. The force of the blow stings his palm. Joe doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound. “Is that,” he says and he doesn’t recognize his voice, the way it sounds graveled and broken, “is that all right?” 

Joe doesn’t say anything and doesn’t say anything. And Costel wants to back away, wants to call the whole thing off. Then, finally, Joe says, ‘Yeah. Yeah, uh, you can, harder if--”

“Okay,” Costel says and hits him twice in quick succession. 

As he’s raising his hand for a third blow, Joe says, “Could you--” He stops, hand raised, and waits. “Talk,” Joe says, “Like--like before? Tell me-- Just, could you?”

“Yes,” he says, “Okay.” But then he stands there, hand still raised, trying to figure out what to say, where to start. “Okay,” he says again. It’d been easier to hit Joe the first time, he thinks, than it is to be standing here trying to find the right thing to say. So he hits Joe again then again. “Tell me,” he says, “what you did. Say it.” He hears Joe suck in a breath. He hits him again. “Say it.”

“I--I fucked up. Made a mistake.” Costel hits him when he says mistake. Joe gasps. It’s the first sound he’s made in response to being hit. Costel almost stops but, before he can, Joe says, “I lost us the game because I fucked up. Again. I--” 

“Yes,” Costel says, finally finding the right words to say, “You make mistake again. Always the same mistakes. Always.” He hits him. Each time he hits him, it gets easier to hit him again. That should scare him but he’s caught up in the rhythm of it now. He doesn’t have time for fear. “You never learn, do you? Never.” 

“No--” Joe starts.

“Quiet,” Costel snaps without thinking, punctuating the word with another smack. “Is this what it takes to teach you? Treating you like a naughty child?” He doesn’t know where the words are coming from. They’re pouring out of him like fast-flowing water, wild and out of control. “Will this make you learn? Is this what you need?” His palm is going numb but Joe hasn’t moved, has barely made a sound. “Well,” he says, tired of Joe’s silence, of feeling like he’s alone in this, “Answer me. Is this how you learn? With me--” He hits Joe again. “Is this how?” He flexes his hand while he waits for Joe to answer. His palm is numb from the repeated blows.

Joe shudders and says, “Yes. _Yes_. I-- Please, Costel, _more_.” 

He hits him again and again. Not as hard as before, just a quick succession of light blows. “This,” he says, “is how a child learns, Joe, not a man it’s--” He stops. He doesn’t want to say the word he’s thinking.

“It’s?” Joe’s voice is so hoarse Costel barely recognizes it. “What? Tell me. Don’t-- Just say it.” 

Costel rests his hand on Joe’s back. “It’s--” He stops again. Joe’s warm. His training top’s damp with sweat. “It’s--” He looks away. “Pathetic.” He can barely get the word out. 

“Yeah,” Joe says and the way he sounds, strangely ecstatic, it’s _wrong_. Costel’s hitting him - _hurting_ him - saying things he’d never thought he’d say to anyone and Joe _likes_ it. 

“Pathetic,” he says again and it’s easier to say this time. “You are a man, Joe, a man fixes his mistakes, a man can learn. But not you--” He hits him. Harder than he has before. “You don’t. You are acting like a child, needing someone else to teach you, fix you.” He hits him again, harder, so hard pain jolts up his arm. “Pathetic.” He waits, after that, waits for Joe to say stop. 

“You can,” Joe says, “hit me harder.”

Costel doesn’t know if he can. He tries, though, puts all the force he can manage behind his next blow. “Okay?” he says.

“Yeah,” Joe says, “Yeah. S’good.” His words sound slurred, like he’s having trouble getting them out. 

They don’t speak for a while. There’s only the sound of his hand striking Joe’s body. Then Joe says, gasping the words out, “Should be you, in goal, it--” 

People - journalists, friends - will sometimes say things like this to Costel, say that he’s better than Joe, that he deserves to start ahead of him. Costel always demurs, always says that Joe is a very talented keeper, that it is an honor to train with him. Sometimes he means it. Sometimes, though, he has to bite back the answer he really wants to give. Sometimes, when he’s sitting on the bench watching Joe, he thinks, _I’d never do that. I’d be better._ “Say that again,” he says.

“Should be you.”

“Yes,” he says. He fists his hand. He can’t touch Joe while he says this, can’t hit him. He’s afraid of what he might do. “It should. But it is always you. _Always_.”

“Should be you, Costel, it--” Joe pushes back, like he misses the blows. “ _Costel_.”

“Yes. It should. I should play. You--” He hits him. “You don’t deserve it. Don’t--”

“I don’t,” Joe says, “I don’t.”

“Should,” Costel says, punctuating the words with a blow, “sit you on the bench. Make you watch. Make you see what _should_ be done. Make--” It’s all spilling out of him, all the dark, insidious thoughts that claw their way into his head every time he watches Joe make a mistake. The more he says the easier it gets to say still more. “You belong there, on the bench. Don’t deserve to play.” It’s getting easier and easier to hit him. His hand is numb and aching but that doesn’t seem important. 

“Yeah,” Joe says, “I--I should be dropped. Should--”

“If,” Costel interrupts, “it were up to me you would be on the bench.” He hits him. “Everyone would see you on the bench and know how you fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Joe says. He sounds far away. His voice’s gone breathy and low. “Yeah.” He doesn’t say stop and Costel’s stopped waiting for him to. 

“Maybe,” he says, “You’re not even good enough for the bench. Maybe Wright will sit on the bench and you--you will just watch the game. Think about how Wright deserves place on the bench more than you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Joe says in a staccato, repetition that seems completely mindless, like Joe’s just left, just stopped listening.

“Joe?” he says. He puts his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Joe?” Joe drops his head. The hair at the nape of his neck is dark and damp with sweat. 

“Yeah,” Joe says.

“You are,” Costel says. He presses his fingertips to the nape of Joe’s neck. “All right?”

“Yeah,” Joe says, “M’good.” 

Costel settles his hand across the nape of Joe’s neck. “You want to stop?”

“No!” Joe says and the stretched breathiness is gone from his voice, replaced by knife-sharp desperation, “No. Unless you...” He trails off.

“Okay,” Costel says. He squeezes Joe’s neck and Joe makes a low, murmuring sound. “Okay. We will do a little more. All right?”

“‘Kay,” Joe says. Costel drops his hand but Joe doesn’t raise his head. 

It’s hard to start again. The rhythm he’d fallen into before is gone. He almost says he’s changed his mind. He flexes his hand. The feeling is coming back into his palm. “What,” he says, searching for a place to start again, “was I saying?”

“You, uh,” Joe says, “were saying you’d have Wrighty on the bench ‘stead of me.”

Costel stares down at his hands. He just has to start. That’s all. “Why,” he says, “not you?”

“‘Cause,” Joe says, shifting a bit, “m’not good enough, don’t--” Costel hits him. The feel of it’s a shock, like it’s the first hit all over again. Joe hisses but he doesn’t say stop.

“Don’t what?” he says punctuating the question with another blow. 

Joe makes a low, humming sound. “Don’t deserve it,” he says all in a rush, ”Should have to watch, have everyone watch me and know m’not even good enough for the bench.” 

“That’s right,” Costel says, hitting him again, then again, “Let everyone see what you are. Would you like that? Everyone to know you aren’t good enough. Not--” He hits him. “Not what they thought you were.”

Joe shudders. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah.” His voice’s dropped back into the same dazed, breathless register as before. 

Costel hits him. “How could you like that, how--” He hits him again. “Pathetic to like a shameful thing like that.”

Joe shudders. “Yeah,” he says, “I know. I’m--” He stops.

“You’re what?”

“Pathetic,” Joe says and Costel hits him again. Joe makes a sound then, low and guttural, almost a moan. “Joe?” he says and holds his next blow, afraid he’s finally gone too far.

“ _Hmm_?” Joe says. 

“All right?” Costel says.

“ _Oh,_ ” Joe says, “ _Yeah._ M’good. _More_.” The way his voice sounds, it’s like something soft and wet is sliding across Costel’s skin, something that just skirts the edge of unpleasant. He hits him again. The sound Joe makes is a moan, it can’t be explained away as anything else. It’s a low, deep and completely _pleased_ sort of sound. 

Costel feels too hot then too cold. A sick, prickly feeling slithers down his spine. He steps back. He thinks his hands are shaking. “Joe?” he says. His voice shakes. “You--you _like_ this, you--” He can’t keep his revulsion out of his voice, doesn’t even try. “You--” He can’t keep going. 

“I,” Joe says and, for the first time, he sounds ashamed, “M’sorry. I-- Sorry.”

“I didn’t,” Costel says, stumbling back, “This is not for that. I didn’t-- I don’t-- _Joe_.”

“I’m sorry,” Joe says, “I am. I--” 

“I’m not,” Costel says, “Not like that.” He tries not to let his disgust show, tries to sound normal. He doesn’t quite succeed. “I don’t-- Would never--”

“I know,” Joe says, “I--I didn’t mean this to happen. I just--just-- I didn’t want this. I _didn’t_.”

“Okay,” Costel says, “All right. I--I believe you.” He’s not sure he does. “But,” he adds, “We will stop now. We--”

“No,” Joe interrupts, “No. Can’t we-- Can’t we just, I’ll--” 

Costel takes another step back. “Joe. Joe. I don’t--don’t want that. Don’t want to, you know, I--”

“I know,” Joe says, “I know. S’better if--if you don’t, you know, don’t want that--”

Costel feels like the room is spinning. “You want someone who doesn’t want you? You--” 

“Yeah,” Joe says, so low Costel can just barely hear him, “I do. I--”

“That’s--” Costel doesn’t have the words so, or, maybe, he does but he can’t get them out. 

“Can’t we just,” Joe says, “Like before. I won’t-- Promise. I--”

There are so many reasons to say no. He’s overwhelmed by his own disgust at the thought of it, can taste it, sour and bitter on his tongue. But part of him wants to, wants the chance to _hurt_ Joe for making it this way, for liking it that way. He’s a little afraid of where that feeling might take him. “If,” he says, slowly, “If we do. You will not--not, you know? It won’t be for that. _Cannot_ be.” 

“Okay,” Joe says, “Just, _please_ \--”

“Don’t,” Costel says, “Don’t say that, don’t--” 

“Okay, “Joe says, “Okay.”

Costel takes a step towards him, then another, until he’s as close to him as he was before. “We will, like before,“ he says, “But nothing like that, okay? Promise?”

“Promise,” Joe says.

Costel hits him as hard as he can. He waits for Joe to make a sound, to say something. He doesn’t. Costel hits him again. Still nothing. “How,” he says, hitting him again, “How can you want this? Why? From someone who--” He hits him again. 

“I--” Joe says.

“No!” Costel says, “Don’t talk. I don’t--don’t want to hear. Just--” He hits him again and again. “Just be quiet.” He’s gasping for air and his palm is tingling, going numb. He hits him again. “It’s disgusting, wanting this, liking this. I--I-- _Why?_ ” He hits him again and Joe shudders. Costel hits him again. “Disgusting,” he says. He’s out of words. He feels outside himself, like it’s someone else’s hand striking Joe, like it’s someone else speaking. 

“Stop,” Joe says, “Stop. Costel, you-- _Stop_ ” 

Costel stops, arm raised. “Joe?” Joe’s panting. Costel can hear it, can see his back rise and fall.

“I--I--” Joe says, voice raw and stretched, “If you don’t, I’ll--I’ll--”

Costel stumbles back and back and back until he hits the bench against the far wall. He feels dizzy - sick. He sits down. He can’t look at Joe anymore, can’t-- He closes his eyes. “We,” he says, “are done. No more. Done.” He keeps his eyes closed and breathes, in and out, trying to keep the sick, roiling in his gut from coming up and spilling out of his mouth. 

“Costel?” Joe says. Costel doesn’t open his eyes. He just breathes. In and out. In and out. “I’m gonna--gonna you know--” 

“I don’t,” Costel says, “care. Just--just don’t--”

“All right,” Joe says, his voice soft and his tone too understanding for Costel’s liking. 

Costel keeps his eyes closed. He hears the rustle of cloth and then a sharp, inhalation of breath. He pretends he doesn’t know what any of it means. He just breathes. In and out. In and out. 

Then he hears the soft thud of footsteps. “Costel?” Joe says. He sounds closer. “You, ah, you okay?”

“Fine.” He doesn’t open his eyes. He can’t look at Joe. Not yet. 

“Okay,” Joe says. 

He walks away but Costel still doesn’t open his eyes. He just sits and breathes. He doesn’t know how long he sits there. He just breathes and lets the reality of what he’s done sink over him. It slides and twists around him like a snake, squeezing him so tightly it’s all he can do to keep breathing. It can never be taken back, any of it, not a single word of it, or a single blow. It’ll always be a part of him now. He’ll always know that he was capable of this. 

Joe comes back, well, he hears footsteps and assumes it’s Joe. He opens his eyes. It is Joe. His hair is damp and he’s dressed in his street clothes. He must’ve showered. He has a bottle of water in his hand. Costel looks away. He still doesn’t want to look at him. “Can I sit,” Joe says.

Costel nods. Joe sits. He leaves a good foot of space between them. Costel’s glad of the space. He can’t touch Joe right now. Can’t look at him. Joe holds the water out in front of Costel. “Do you? I, uh, thought you might need it?”

Costel reaches out and takes the bottle, careful not to touch Joe’s fingers. He opens the water and drinks half of it in quick, greedy sips. “Thanks,” he says. 

“Welcome,” Joe says. 

Costel turns the bottle in his hands. “Why me?” he says, “Why ask me for--for...” He trails off.

“Because,” Joe says, “I knew, the things you’d say to me, you’d mean them in a way no one else would.” 

Costel drops the bottle. Water spills all over the floor. “Joe.” It’s all he can say. It’s not like Joe’s wrong and the time for them to lie to each other is long past.

“S’all right, Costel, truly,” Joe says, soft and conciliatory, “It’s the way it is. If--if I was in your place, I’d think the same things. I have been, have done. And, uh, you saying that stuff, s’what I wanted.” He pauses then says, “Thanks, you know, for that, and for-- I, uh, I know you, uh, you didn’t really-- But thanks.” 

Costel stares down at the water. It’s slowly creeping across the tile and pooling in the little divot in the floor that people are forever tripping on. “Those things,” he says, “that I said, they aren’t the only things I think. You are a good keeper, Joe. You are. We all make mistakes. Me, you, all keepers, all _players_. But you are good, Joe, please--please know that.”

“I know,” Joe says and there’s a touch of his usual confidence in his voice, “But, uh, thanks for saying. You’re good too, you know, too good to just be sitting on the bench behind me.” 

“Thanks,” Costel says. There are other things he could say but now is not the time or the place. 

“Are you,” Joe says, after a minute, “ever gonna look at me again?” 

“Tomorrow,” Costel says, “okay?”

“Okay,” Joe says, “Tomorrow.” 

By tomorrow, Costel thinks, he’ll be able to look at Joe again. By tomorrow, he’ll be able to look at Joe and not see what he’s done today.


End file.
